Chapter 3

Chapter Three

AINSLEY

W hen Peter arrived home, I was at the table waiting for him. The kids had disappeared to their respective corners of the home, as was the routine—sometime around their eighth birthdays, they each decided they no longer needed to spend time with us unless absolutely necessary.

The thought crashed into me as I sank into memories of the four of us waiting anxiously for Peter to arrive home from work back then. I remembered the way Dylan and Riley, our oldest boys, would rush toward their father before he could even shut the door, anxious to tell him all about their days. It used to frustrate him. I recalled so vividly him asking that they wait until he'd had a moment to breathe before they pounced on him. If only we'd known how many moments to breathe we'd have as they grew older.

With Maisy, our youngest and only girl, it was different. Peter had always seemed to have time for her, despite the fact that, of all our children, she was the most independent. Perhaps it was because he saw how fast time had gone by with the other two, perhaps it was because she was the easiest child of our three, or perhaps it was because he realized our time was dwindling with our babies in general.

Now, granted, they weren't ready to move out or anything. We still had time with them—Dylan was fourteen, Riley twelve, and Maisy ten. But it seemed like a blink from the time we brought them each home until we had a house of teenagers and preteens. I think the truth was, we'd both realized how quickly time had gotten away from us while we were busy doing other things. How easily we'd let it slip on by. And now, we realized that we had just eight years left, less than Maisy's whole life, which seemed short in comparison to so much else, and then our babies would leave us. They'd be out of the house, on with their lives. And we'd be left with…what?

Our marriage? The one we'd neglected over and over again?

Our home? The one we'd put off repairing in favor of new shoes for the children and extracurriculars?

We had nothing left of what we'd built together in the beginning, and I thought that was what this arrangement had come down to. We needed to decide if there was anything left to fight for.

I didn't want to be the kind of wife in a loveless marriage or the kind of mother who divorced her children's father when the youngest turned eighteen—I knew people like that. They were exhausted—tired and bitter, worn down by a life without romantic love. I didn't want that to be us, but I didn't know what else to do to fix our marriage aside from this. Date nights and random attempts at couples counseling hadn't worked… This was my last resort. If this didn't work, I wasn't sure there was any hope for us. It had to work.

Peter appeared in the doorway of our kitchen, looking worn out and drained as usual. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, and nodded in my general direction without making eye contact. "Hey," he said, his voice conflicted. I didn't have to ask what it was about. It was Tuesday, which meant we had reached the official start of our arrangement.

Abiding by our rules, Peter hadn't asked me anything about my date or what my plans were, but I could tell it was driving him crazy. I smiled and stood from the chair, walking toward him as he approached the sink to start his evening pot of coffee. "How was work?"

"Fine," he mumbled, either distracted or agitated, but I didn't pry.

"I'm going to go up and get ready. Do you need anything from me first?"

I waited for an answer, which didn't come right away. Instead, he shut the water off, set the half-filled pot down, and turned to face me. "Are you sure about this? Are we sure we know what we're doing? Is this a huge mistake?"

My face warmed from his concern. "I don't think it's a mistake. Do you?"

His brown eyes found mine. "I don't know, Ainsley… I just can't help feeling like after tonight…there's no going back, you know? Up until you walk out that door, we still have a choice, but once it's done…you can't take it back."

I narrowed my gaze at him, taking in what he was saying. "I hear you," I said, nodding along. "But…what options are there? We both agree it's not working like it is. Marriage counseling and date nights didn't work, so…do we give up? Do we tuck our tails and accept that we have only a few years left of being roommates with the same last name and then pass Maisy her birthday cake as we sign the divorce papers? Even if we decide to stick it out for the kids, do you think we deserve to live like that? Eight years of…what? Some subpar existence?" I drew in my lips. "I don't want to do this, Peter. I'm just as terrified as you are, trust me. I would never have suggested it if I thought we had any other choice, so if you have an option that doesn't involve accepting defeat, I'm all ears." I tucked my hands in my pockets, watching him mull over what I'd said.

"It feels wrong," he said. "I can't explain it. It feels like we're cheating on each other."

"But we aren't. This is an agreement. We're agreeing to see other people to reignite the spark in our marriage. Cheating would involve lying, and there's no lying allowed in this arrangement. I'm with you that it feels strange, but wrong? Wrong would imply that we're doing something shady, and we aren't at all. At least, not to each other."

"You aren't going to fall in love with him, are you?" he asked with a laugh, but I knew he wasn't joking.

I reached out a hand and took his. "This isn't about love. It isn't about sex either. It's about connecting with other people. Having fun. Allowing ourselves to step outside of this mold we've created for our lives and see if there's a part of us that we still need to discover. We used to be whole people without each other and without the kids. I want us to find out what parts of those people still exist. There's nothing that says we have to do anything—physical or otherwise—on these dates. We can talk to people, dance, have a nice dinner, see a movie. I think this is more about connecting with ourselves again than it is about anyone else."

He nodded, but it was slow. Inconsequential. I couldn't tell if he agreed. "You're probably right," he said. "I don't want it to be a mistake."

"There's no mistake we can't fix as long as we work together, okay?" I squeezed his hand before dropping mine to my side. "We're in this together. All the way."

He leaned down, surprising me by kissing my lips. It was the first time he'd done that in I couldn't recall how long. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too." With that, I smiled at him one last time before departing from the room. I needed time to get ready for my first date in over fifteen years.

The date was with a man named Stefan. He was in his mid-forties, so a few years older than Peter and me, bald, with thick, dark eyebrows à la Eugene Levy, and a kind smile. His profile said he liked pasta and wine, he was a proud Italian, and he had a pet Labradoodle named Lip, after Lip Gallagher. He was a widower getting back on the wagon—I guess said wagon came in the form of me tonight—and wanting to have some fun in the process.

We'd talked sporadically over the past few days. He'd sent me a few notes to say hey and ask how my days were going, but I'd kept the conversation to a minimum. I wanted to make sure it was clear straight from the get-go that this wasn't a permanent thing, but how would I do that? I should've stuck to matching with twenty-somethings. All they seemed to care about was racking up an astronomical number of women to sleep with. But I'd always been drawn to good conversation over a spectacular bedding, and I would assume experienced, older men could bring both to the table.

If I had to guess, I'd bet Peter's date would be younger, maybe much, and brunette. He'd always had a thing for brunettes with hair down to their asses. But, I would play by the rules, and I wouldn't ask him about her or about what they would do together.

A knot formed in my stomach as I forced the thought away. I needed to focus. I needed to get this right. I grabbed the red dress from my closet, a favorite of mine and one I didn't get to wear nearly enough, and laid it out on the bed. It was a midi sleeveless dress with elegant pleats across the chest and a tapered waistband. One of the few silk items of clothing I owned, and certainly the only one I'd ever had dry-cleaned.

I sat down at the vanity, pulling and prodding at my skin. I thought wrinkles were reserved for women in their forties and fifties, but I had discovered my first at age twenty-six, and I'd been on the steady decline ever since. I used to think it was a good thing I managed to snag my husband before my age started to affect my appearance, but now I had to wonder if I'd made a mistake. If things fell apart with Peter and me, the next person wouldn't get me at my best. No one would ever again see what my body looked like before it created and birthed three children. No one would know how soft and supple my skin was in my early twenties. They wouldn't know who I was when I was carefree and fun. Peter got that version of me, and he'd practically squandered it.

I picked up the bottle of makeup remover, washing away the day. Underneath all the primer, eyeliner, and subtle hints of rouge, I was pale and lifeless. A shell of the woman I once was. I rubbed moisturizer on before adding fresh primer, then put on a new coat of makeup, adding extra color to my cheeks. I dusted gold powder across my eyes—it had always made the green stand out the most—and applied fresh red lipstick, fiery as my hair.

When I was done, I pulled my hair down from its clip and took out the curling wand, turning my flat, red hair into carefree beach waves. It took time, but I still had an hour before I was meeting Stefan and I wanted to look my best.

Once every piece of my hair had been curled to loose, imperfect perfection, I spritzed my favorite perfume on my wrists and behind my ears and removed my clothing, slipping on clean, uncomfortable underwear I hadn't worn in years. Next, I unzipped the dress and stepped into it, zipping it back up on the side and adjusting it. Without checking the mirror yet, I made my way into the closet and picked out simple, black heels.

I stood still for a moment, trying to calm my erratic breathing. I shouldn't have felt so afraid. I'd been preparing myself for days, trying to be confident that this would all work out, that Stefan would be great, that Stefan would not be a serial killer, that I would be able to get back into the swing of things easily, that there wouldn't be dating protocol I was unfamiliar with after years of not dating. I wrung my hands together in front of me, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out. My palms were sweaty and I didn't dare wipe them on the silk, so I flapped them at my sides as if I were a bird instead. I could feel sweat beading on my upper lip and along my temple, and I felt both very cold and like I may get sick all at once.

I balled my hands into fists, locking my jaw into a determined grimace. No. Tonight would be fun. I was going to make sure it was fun.

I stalked back across the room, pulled out a simple, black clutch, and placed my ID and credit card inside. I looked down at my hand, at the wedding and engagement bands that adorned my ring finger. Bite the bullet. I twisted the rings, easing them off my finger and dropping them in the glass ring holder on my vanity. Then, I grabbed my phone and headed for the door. I stopped by the kids' bedrooms one by one.

I reached Dylan's first. He hardly looked up from his tablet, except to mumble "Why are you dressed like that?"

"I have a work thing," I said, the answer I'd prepared. "I won't be home until late. Be good for your dad, okay?"

He nodded, bored with the conversation, and looked back down without another word. I kissed his scruffy brown hair, ruffling it and hurrying from the room before I found myself unable to put off my desire to clean it.

Next came Riley. He was elbow-deep in a bag of potato chips when I walked into the room, one hand on an Xbox controller. He paused it, looking me up and down with a slack jaw and confused expression. "Are we going somewhere?"

"No. Not you, just me. I have a work thing tonight. I probably won't be back before you go to bed. Is your homework done?"

He nodded, appearing relieved. "I only had math, and I finished most of it in class."

"Good. Will you mind your dad for me?"

He rolled his eyes, but unlike Dylan, there was a playfulness there. He'd not yet learned to be annoyed by my every word. "I always do."

"Help him out if he needs it, okay? And don't fight with your brother." I ruffled his hair too, kissing his cheek. He swiped it away with his hand—he didn't used to do that. When did it start? I couldn't even remember.

"I won't. Have fun at your work thing."

"I will," I said. "Love you, kiddo. See you later tonight or in the morning, depending…"

"Love you, too." With that, he pressed the button to start the game back up, and the music began blaring once again. I grabbed a stack of dirty cups from his dresser and walked from the room. I didn't know why I felt so sad about this. It wasn't like I was doing anything to hurt them, but somehow it felt like more of a betrayal to them than it did to Peter.

The last room was Maisy's. The pink flower on her door was one we'd painted together at a Mommy and Me class when she was six, her name drawn out in an attempted fancy script. It was a small sign of what used to be. Her room had changed so much over the years, starting out with posters of rainbows, unicorns, and her favorite Disney princesses, and ending up now with photos of her with her friends, quotes from her favorite books, and string lights all around the top of her walls and hanging in lines behind the head of her bed. I pushed the door open, and she looked up at me from the book in her hand, did a double take, and her brows raised.

"You look gorg , Momma. Why are you so dressed up?"

"I've got a meeting with a few people from the office tonight. I'll probably be out late. Think you'll be okay to hang out here with the boys?"

She wrinkled her nose, pretended to think it over, and then nodded. "I think I'll manage."

"What are you reading?" I asked, setting the cups from Riley's room on top of her dresser and easing down on the edge of her bed.

She held up the novel The Graveyard Book. "Neil Gaiman." One of her favorite authors. She was a reader, like her father. And like her mother, my sweet Maisy had always been obsessed with all things creepy—ghost stories, scary movies, and the like. I'd been just the same growing up—there wasn't a Goosebumps episode or Steven King film I hadn't seen by age thirteen. The ones that existed then, anyway.

"That's a good one," I assured her. "Did you finish your homework?" I didn't even have to ask, but I wanted to. I wanted to savor every moment with her. At that moment, I was hit with the heaviest pang of guilt, and I considered calling the whole thing off to stay home and spend time with her. How long had it been since we'd painted each other's nails and ate junk food together? Did she have a boyfriend? Was there a guy she had a crush on? Once, I would've known that, but I couldn't remember the last time we'd had a real conversation. I missed her.

"Mostly. I have a call with Jennessa and Bailey in an hour to go over our English assignment. It's a group project, but we're going to FaceTime and work on it since Bailey's grounded."

I nodded. So, even if I wanted to stay, I'd be unwelcome. She had plans. Things to do. I would be in the way, and I needed to busy myself. "Anything I can help with?"

"Not really," she said, confirming what I suspected.

"Okay then. Well," I rubbed my hands over my legs, "I'm going to go ahead and get out of here. If you need anything, your dad will be around and I'll have my phone."

"We'll be fine, Mom." She was smiling, and there was no hint of frustration in her tone, but I heard more than what she said nonetheless. They didn't need me anymore. Not like they once had. I felt a tug somewhere deep inside of my stomach, as if the part of me that had grown my children was crying out. I fought back against the bitterness that filled my chest, my jaw tight. My babies were growing up, my husband was growing distant, and my life was at a standstill. The reality of where I was made me ache for all that had been. I touched her cheek lovingly and she looked disturbed, so I let my hand drop.

"Love you, kiddo. Have a good night."

She picked the book back up, already lost in the story. "You too," she called when I pulled open the door and grabbed the stack of cups again.

I made my way down the hall, a hurricane of sadness, confusion over the sadness, anxiety, and fear welling inside of me. I needed to get out of this house before I backed down. Peter was in the kitchen, head in the refrigerator, but when he heard my heels on the hardwood, he looked over his shoulder.

I saw the shock in his eyes. The appreciation for the way I looked.

He was realizing I still had it, though I wouldn't have known it myself if not for that moment. His shocked expression filled me with confidence.

"Y-you look…wow," his gaze bounced from my chest to my eyes and back down again, "you look amazing."

I felt the heat rise to my cheeks, glanced down, and walked past him on my way to place the dirty dishes in the sink. "Thank you."

"He must be taking you somewhere nice."

I froze, processing what he'd said. There was no question in his words at face value, but I knew the intention was there. It was the first hint that he wanted to break the rules. But if I told him anything, he'd want me to tell him everything. We'd be breaking the guidelines we'd laid out. "He is," I said simply, choosing clipped honesty over reiterating the rules.

"Well, he's a…lucky guy tonight."

There was nothing light about his tone then. He was angry. Bitter. I could sense it, but I wouldn't respond. The clock on the stove showed it was after six, which meant I needed to leave the house within the next few minutes to make it to the restaurant by seven.

"Thank you," I said. "I've told the kids I'm heading out, let them know it was a work thing and that I'll see them either late tonight or in the morning. Homework's done, Maisy has a FaceTime thing for one of her assignments here soon, so you won't want to disturb her. Riley needs to eat more than potato chips for dinner, so if you don't cook—"

"I'm going to cook," he affirmed.

"Well, if you don't—"

"I'm going to," he said again, more firmly this time.

"Okay," I nodded. "Fine. Okay. Good." I sighed. "I'll see you when I get home then." I started to walk away, but he stopped me, grabbing my arm.

"Do you—" He let me go when I glanced down at his grip. "Sorry. Do you want to send me his name, or the address of the restaurant, or the name of where you're going in case…I don't know, in case he ends up being some sort of wacko? I know it's against the rules, but…"

I twisted my lips in thought. "I guess it's not the worst idea. How about this: do we have any envelopes?"

"What? Are you going to write me a letter?"

"I'm going to write down his name and the place he's taking me for dinner and seal it in an envelope. Then, when I get home, we can shred it and I'll know if you tampered with it. But if I don't come home or if you don't hear from me, you can open it."

He didn't look happy about the plan. "You don't trust me not to look?"

"It's not about trust. It's about temptation. Knowing you can't look takes away the temptation, and then neither of us has to worry about it."

He sighed. "Fine. Whatever. I'll get an envelope."

I removed a piece of paper from a drawer and scribbled the words down as he sulked out of the room, and when he returned, I slid the paper inside the envelope and sealed it tight. I pulled a piece of tape from the drawer and placed it over the seal. Then, I signed my name to the tape. "There, now it's sealed for sure." It was an old trick we used at the bank to protect the combinations we kept sealed in our keybox from the prying eyes of other employees. The safeguard worked just as well in this situation. If he removed the tape, I'd know it. And he couldn't forge my signature well enough to replace it.

Peter looked at it as if it was the most ridiculous thing in the world, but he didn't say anything.

"Put it on top of the refrigerator so none of the kids find it. I don't want them asking questions."

He did as he was told. "Well, have a good night, I guess."

I nodded, pressing my lips to his cheek awkwardly. "This feels weird," I admitted as I turned away from him.

"So weird," he agreed with a huff of relieved breath.

"I'll text you when I get there. Let you know I made it okay."

"Be careful," he said, the anger disappearing from his eyes, replaced by sadness. "There are a lot of crazy people out there."

"I will be. Promise."

With that, I walked out of the room, then out of the house, refusing to let myself question if I was making the biggest mistake of my life.